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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26453410">Between Dogs and Wolves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mafia_Angel091/pseuds/Mafia_Angel091'>Mafia_Angel091</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, Drama &amp; Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:48:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,495</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26453410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mafia_Angel091/pseuds/Mafia_Angel091</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Booker lasted one month into his sentence before it went tits up; a young girl with a past just as dark and mysterious as his own. Don't ask, don't tell, right? Except Booker's not the kind of person to ignore someone, especially a child, that needs help.</p>
<p>The team has gotten a new mission, the first without Booker's assistance. But something's wrong and an old face is back. Revenge is cold and they may be forced to enlist Booker once again if they want the innocent to come out unscathed. </p>
<p>Or they could just die again. That works too.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache of Scythia &amp; Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Everyone, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1-Booker</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My first fanfic ever! I'll be sure to add more tags or warnings if need be. Wish me luck!</p>
<p>Also bear with me as I'm learning AO3; I'll figure out the format eventually.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The plan was death by whiskey. Or rum. Or Cognac.</p>
<p>The plan was to annihilate his liver over and over again. To drown it in poison until his hands trembled and his throat was clogged with vomit, till his chest was wracked with pain, stomach heaving and his vision blurring. The plan was to make the ghosts vanish, if only for a few minutes. His sons were seared into his mind- the oldest a gangly, freckled teen, always sporting a black eye because he had his honor to defend; Edmond died before he turned twenty. Alain with his mama’s face and Booker’s heart; that bloody cough was the beginning of the end. The youngest, Rémy, had always adored him, a blond babe with chubby hands upraised as Booker returned from a hard day’s work, demanding a good squeeze. The wheezing, pallid adult that took Rémy’s place- curled in bed from the pain, cursing Booker for the demon he was. Amélie- sweet, loving Amélie- with her perpetually flour coated hands and an insatiable need for chocolate. Amélie- Booker’s better half, his soul mate. Her breathing slowing down to frail gasps, her body shriveled and weak before him, drowning, each one more painful than the last.</p>
<p>The plan was to die. Again. </p>
<p>“Do you know who I am?”</p>
<p>Booker’s eyes flickered up to the sky. The neon was threatening to drown out the stars above, the underbelly of the city the same as it was nearly two and half centuries ago. The same grime that dug into his fingernails. The mold that lurked just beyond sight, burrowed into old wood. Crumbling brick worn down by time. The clip-clop of hooves against cobblestone was replaced by the near silent “whirr” of wheels gliding on asphalt, the locals rushing by with their heads low. Out of sight, out of mind.</p>
<p>“This is my stretch!” The sound of a hand striking flesh was loud. A sharp pop that made Booker pause with the bottle to his lips. “Fuck off!”</p>
<p>The reply was muffled; just drink, the thought popped into his head, Booker taking another swig. He was comfortable here. Tucked in the shadows of some dark, shitty alleyway with his seventh bottle of whiskey, sobriety and ghosts already creeping into the present the longer he waited. Just fucking drink. You don’t need to concern yourself with-</p>
<p>“Little shit!” The pop was louder this time. </p>
<p>Merde. Booker rose to his feet, nausea swirling through him. It would fade soon enough. It always did.</p>
<p>He moved on his own accord, shuffling forward, the half empty bottle more akin to a cement block. “Hey,” Booker winced. His voice sounded raspy, weak even to his own ears. Damn, he must have been so close to death too! He caught a glimpse of the asshole- a big boy at six three or maybe six four. He wore a shirt several sizes too small; an attempt to show off the muscles? Booker didn’t care. He was tired and this close to achieving some peace, if only for a few minutes.</p>
<p> He eyed the stranger’s back for a long moment. The man seemed too wrapped up in whatever or whoever was in a dumpster. Booker’s knees popped as he straightened up, stepping out into the light. “Leave the little shit alone.”</p>
<p>“Fuck off!” The man turned to face him, one hand balled into a massive fist. “Unless you want me to put you six feet under!”</p>
<p>“Don’t tempt me,” Booker snorted, catching a glimpse of something in the dumpster moving. A cautious flicker of a shadow, a small pale face with one eye seared shut and a busted lip. A kid. His stomach twisted in on itself; a familiar bolt of ice jolting down his spine. A fucking kid- ten? Eleven maybe?</p>
<p>“Fuck off, old man!” The man’s voice boomed in the small space. “You don’t want any!”</p>
<p>His sons had all been that age once. Small and frail and wide eyed.</p>
<p>“Say some-”</p>
<p>Booker threw the bottle at the man’s face. It was half full and what it lacked in momentum it made up for in power. The heavy thud of glass hitting his face was like music to Booker’s ears, the shocked squawk twisting into a near shriek as he slammed his knee into the fucker’s balls. </p>
<p> The immortal let the thug hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Well damn, he frowned, thumb brushing away the droplets of spit on his leather collar. “You owe me a bottle...”</p>
<p>The man whined, still curled on the ground like the overgrown child he was. </p>
<p>“Hey kid,” a few light brown strands fell into his eyes and he brushed them back. “Kid, you al-”</p>
<p>The kid was gone. In the few seconds it took for Booker to knee the bastard in the balls, the child had scrambled out of the dumpster like a bruised cockroach. Gone in a few heartbeats, leaving Booker talking to torn open trash bags and a whimpering idiot and wasted heavenly whiskey. </p>
<p>Honestly, why was dying so hard?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2-Claire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A chance meeting between our fellow drunk, depressed immortal and a shy girl. Booker has no idea how much this is going to bite him in the ass.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I think out of all of the Old Guard, Booker would probably be more inclined to help kids out lol. He was a father, after all, and Claire needs a fam. Anyhoo, because italics continue to confuse me on this website, I've done them as: *... *</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2<br/>                  Claire</p>
<p>     “Whatcha got, Claire?”</p>
<p>       Claire bit her bottom lip before she held up her prize. The bread was moldy, splotches of green and gray devouring up the good parts. She’d saved the tastier things for herself- blunt fingernails ripping into the trash bags, licking rib bones clean and stuffing beer soaked pretzels into her mouth when the man found her.</p>
<p>       She touched her right eye out of instinct. It was swollen and tender, her vision shot. Who knew what that second bum was going to do, especially if the first one did this. </p>
<p>       “That’s it?” The older boy snorted before he focused on the task at hand, bent over his crumpled pile of euros. Claire had always thought he was handsome. Lanky and blond (*like spun gold,* she thought to herself as she watched him count the fives and tens again. *Like an angel*), perpetually covered in dirt like the rest of them. His eyes were a pretty dark blue, the hint of a scraggly beard proof that he was no longer a street rat but a *ADULT*.  “I thought you’d have something actually good, you know.”</p>
<p>      “I-I-I’m sorry~”</p>
<p>      “You could do more, you know.” Those pretty blue eyes flicked upwards, pinning the girl to the spot. “Those knobby knees don’t have a single bruise on them.”</p>
<p>       A cold, hard ball was forming in her stomach. “Y-yes sir.” She reached up to tug on a lock of dark hair; a quick yank to calm herself. “I-I’m sorry…”</p>
<p>       “Course you are,” the retort was quick, a sharpness in his voice that made her flinch. “That’s why you brought me moldy bread and not a single fucking money clip. Jesus!” Jean’s chair squealed as it slid across the worn liminolum. He slammed a fist down on the table, glaring daggers. “Emile brings me three hundred euros and she’s ten! You’re four years older, Claire! We’ve got enough moldy bread. I need money!”</p>
<p>      *We need money.* She squished the thought before the words dared leak out. The last thing she wanted was to have Jean mad at her. Quick! She had to stop him before his fists started talking! “I...I have a target in mind?”</p>
<p>       A thick dark eyebrow rose. “Yeah? Who is he?”</p>
<p>       Annnnd fuck. Claire chewed on her bottom lip, gaze dropping to the ground. She tried her best to avoid people. She preferred to lurk in the shadows and eat trash like animal rather than-than- </p>
<p>      She shivered. “I-I ran into a man.” Either impossibly kind or impossibly dangerous. “He had a leather jacket on. That jacket could- it could fetch a nice price?”</p>
<p>      “A *jacket?* Are you fucking serious?”</p>
<p>      “It’d look good on you!”</p>
<p>       She watched him change. That irritation in his voice fade to something calmer, gentler. Promises of peace, whispers of kindness. His brow smoothed out, shoulders dipping. “Yeah?” Jean puffed out his chest. “Well...I could use another jacket. This one is kind of shitty. You know where he is?”</p>
<p>       She nodded, ice bolting down her spine. “Y-yes. I do.”</p>
<p>                                                                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>	She did not know where drunk bum number 2 was.</p>
<p>	Claire had tried her best to retrace her steps.</p>
<p>	Paris was a strange city full of twists and turns. Every alleyway holding a monster in its shadows, every church preaching lies. Every building looked alike: old and looming, neon swallowing any hope of of catching a shooting star to wish on. She went past an old bakery and tried to ignore the smell of fresh baked bread wafting beneath the door. She rounded a corner past one bar and paused by the dumpster to see if there was anything good.</p>
<p>	Nothing of monetary value at least.</p>
<p>	The second and third bar she stumbled across just made her feel gross. It- it wasn’t good to think about the past when she didn’t have anyone watching her back. </p>
<p>	“Drunk bum,” she gasped, catching a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. She’d recognize that comfy looking leather anywhere! Drunk Bum # 2, slouched against a brick wall, his head down and his latest poison down by his side. Her prize looked like it was snug on him.</p>
<p>	Claire darted to the side, grateful the man had at least chosen to pass out in some dingy alleyway. She bit her bottom lip, hard enough to taste iron. She could do this. She- it was just be quick. Just take the jacket and run! She reached out, fingers ghosting along the smooth leather. </p>
<p>	Green eyes flickered open, a hand gripping her thin wrist. “What are you doing, mon cherie?”</p>
<p>	Claire flinched, head ducking for the swing that was sure to follow.</p>
<p>	...Nothing. The man merely watched her, his grip strong as steel and soft as cotton. If anything, he looked like he wanted to go back to sleep. He tilted his head to one side, rheumy eyes squinting for a moment before they widened. “Ah, Little Shit.” He let go of her wrist. “That eye looks bad.”</p>
<p>	She glanced behind her. She-she could make a run for it. Drunk Bum # 2 looked like he could barely stand, his head almost lolling from one side to the other. He practically reeked of booze. But… But if she didn’t, Jean would be angry with her. “I,” she cleared her throat, hoping she sounded brave. “I need to steal your jacket, sir.”</p>
<p>	He laughed then- a quick, deep sound that made Claire freeze. “Most people don’t say they’re going to steal something.”</p>
<p>	R-right. Fuck. She reached up to yank a lock of her dark hair. A quick, strong pull, something to center herself. “I-I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>	A flicker of a frown danced across the man’s face. “Why do you need my jacket?”</p>
<p>	“B-because I need it?” Her voice was barely a whisper, hands clasped together hard enough to turn her knuckles white. “I can,” her throat felt painfully tight. Glass shards that ripped down her throat. “I can service you for it, Monsieur -”</p>
<p>	One heartbeat.</p>
<p>	Two. </p>
<p>	Three.</p>
<p>	“Booker,” the man exhaled, finally looking away. Claire couldn’t pinpoint the emotions on his face. Or maybe she didn’t want too. “You don’t have to service me, kid.” He rose to his feet with more balance than Claire thought he had, rolling his neck to the right. It crackled in the quiet. “ I’ll give it to you under one condition.”</p>
<p>	“Condition?” She tried to stay calm. To inhale and exhale and not think of all the ways this Booker could hurt her. “What’s...what’s that?”</p>
<p>	Booker offered a tiny smile, gesturing to the  teenager with his bottle. “Let me treat that eye before it gets infected.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3- Keane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I had way too much fun writing Keane and his friendo lol.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Keane had been dead for seven minutes.</p>
<p>	Seven minutes of nothingness.</p>
<p>	Seven minutes of a void blacker than night- darker than any tomb, colder than anything the mercenary could compare it to. Seven minutes of total nothingness, of nonexistence. And then-</p>
<p>	He woke up.</p>
<p>	“Uck-,” the word was gurgled out, the world exploding. Bright colors that obtained shape, the shuddering crunch as vertebrate crackled back into place. His breath came out in a sharp wheeze, fingertips twitching as he felt his bones mend. The slow steady pull- like mending a sweater, muscle fibers entwining together, joints snapping as pain made itself known. Burning, white hot pain. Enough to make Keane forget his own damn name as he started to move again, boots shifting against the shiny tiled floor. He forced himself up, nausea rolling through him. One hand drifted to his throat- smooth. Not a disjointed bone or a cut or a fucking- “What the fuck,” Kean whispered. </p>
<p>	This was some vampire shit right here. </p>
<p>	“Hands! Show me your hands!”</p>
<p>	Keane obeyed, hands drifting up. Some snot nosed brat barely old enough to order a beer had a gun trained on him. “Captain Robert Keane; commanding officer of Merrick’s private detail.”</p>
<p>	“C-commanding officer?” The kid was smart; he kept the gun trained on the merc, a boot nudging against one of Keane’s men. *Corpse*, Keane thought, inhaling sharply. *He’s not my man anymore. He’s a dead body.* “Then what the hell happened here?”</p>
<p>	“My men were killed.” Keane glanced around the room at the carnage. At the bloody piles of meat, the twisted limbs and broken bodies that had once been men. “And I know who did it.”<br/>                                                                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>	Dear sweet, buttery Jesus did Keane hate the law.</p>
<p>	So much fucking paperwork was involved in a firefight and it felt like *ages* (actually only five years) since Keane had to fill out a single UK related damage report of some sort. Now it was “how many mags did you start with?” and “Was shooting a man twenty times in the chest really self defense?”</p>
<p>	The answer to both questions was yes.</p>
<p>	Now was no different. How many men attacked the compound? (“Five” had the local police staring at him so Keane rubbed his temples and muttered something about being hazy.). What was Merrick doing? (“Fuck if I know; I just collect a paycheck.”-partially true. Money ruled the world and Keane would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued by five immortals). Who killed Merrick? (“I don’t know.” But he knew who killed him). Fingerprints were taken and his military record was pulled up; Robert Keane had been a flawless soldier. He’d been the perfect machine, once upon a time.</p>
<p> He stared down at his palms. Callused from a childhood of running wild in London’s boroughs. Callused from wild fights as a teenager, from a decade and a half of firefights and the comforting weight of a gun in his hands. There was a bit of blood crusted into his thumb nail and he frowned, chipping away at the red.</p>
<p>	“Only you could go into a firefight and not get a single fucking nick.”</p>
<p>	Keane grinned; he’d recognize that gravelly croak anywhere. He rolled his head to the right, neck cracking. “I think that’s an attempt at saying hello.”</p>
<p>	“That’s an attempt at ‘go fuck yourself.’” The shit eating smile that Aaron had softened any harshness in his voice. A cigarette dangled from his lips, gray peppering throughout the dark blond hair. Somehow, Aaron Bloodsworth looked older than Keane. And they were roughly the same fucking age. The smile faded for a moment- no doubt taking in the shitty, blinding light of a holding cell that Keane had been baking in for who knows how long. “What the hell happened, man?”</p>
<p>	Keane offered a tiny shrug. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”</p>
<p>	“Talk it over a pint?”</p>
<p>	Keane arched a thick eyebrow. “My bail is-”</p>
<p>	“Paid,” came the reply. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re not the only one with deep pockets.”</p>
<p>	Keane’s had been lined with unsavory things. With dark missions and even darker outcomes. Aaron was the one that stayed in the military; that obtained the rank of major and was well on his way to obtaining a fat pension. One of them had a lot more to lose here.</p>
<p>	Keane rose to his feet. “You’re a fucking fool, you know that?”</p>
<p>	“That’s the pot calling the kettle black.” </p>
<p>	*Arse.* Keane couldn’t argue though. Not when bail had been paid and he shuffled off to join his friend, gathering what things he could get from the police and sliding into Aaron’s car. The drive was short, but it always was when the company was good. Musing about the good times, rolling his eyes over the latest paperwork drama that Aaron had to deal with. </p>
<p>	It was almost like Keane hadn’t had his neck broken mere hours before.</p>
<p>	“...Will you talk to me now?” The car rumbled to a stop, Aaron turning it off with the flick of his wrist.</p>
<p>	“I thought we were going to talk about this over a pint?”</p>
<p>	Aaron snorted, shooting Keane a look. “We can. I’ve got liquor at my place.”</p>
<p>	It took all he had not to roll his eyes. “Aaron-”</p>
<p>	“What. Happened?”</p>
<p>	Aaron Bloodsworth was an arse. That's all it was. An arse and Keane was an idiot. He exhaled, hand on the car handle. “You won’t believe me.”</p>
<p>	“I did say I had liquor. And even then,” Aaron shrugged. “Its not like I need a shot to handle any of the shit you throw at me.”</p>
<p>	So Keane told him.</p>
<p>	The whole story. What he knew about Merrick’s plans. The five immortals. Keane getting his neck broken and waking up with the British police rushing in. To Aaron’s credit, he was actually quiet. He gave Keane his total attention- only the slightest of twitches at the description of his own death. The plan that Keane had concocted after the third profile picture the police had snapped. A plan that would be hard to pull off on his own.</p>
<p>	“You’re right,” Aaron mused. “I do need a shot.”</p>
<p>	“...You’ve got a pension. A life. You don’t have to do this.”</p>
<p>	Aaron shot him a look; dark, done with bullshit. It made Keane feel a thousand times better. This was the kind of man he wanted to have his back. “You’ve lost men. You’ve-” the blond shook his head. “Look, the broken neck is hard to believe. But the rest- if you need me, you got it.”</p>
<p>	“Aaron-,” Keane started.</p>
<p>	Aaron smiled, keys twirling around his finger. “Let’s go hunting.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 4- Joe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lol I can't write sex or romance. Yet I have a romance tag. Wut?</p>
<p>Anyhoo just a heads up- there is implied child abuse/sex abuse in the beginning/Nicky's backstory. I tried not to be detailed so hopefully, it's not triggering?</p>
<p>Quick TW aside, these chapters just keep getting longer and longer lol. This one is like 5 pages long in my word doc. Thank you to everyone for reviewing so far. It really makes me happy &lt;3</p>
<p>I also don't trust Google translate with words lol. Please help if I'm not using different language phrasings from say Arabic or Russian or French correctly. I can barely speak Spanish and the most French I know can be boiled down to "Croissant." Thank you so much &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Joe was never good at forgiveness.</p>
<p>       It was one of his faults, really. He wore his heart on his sleeve and centuries ago when Joe was Yusuf and Nicky was Nicolo, Yusuf loathed him. A man that had come to invade the Holy Land. A man that threatened everyone and everything that Yusuf loved. A man by the name of Nicolo di Genova who buried his longsword into Yusuf’s chest without a second hesitation. It was Yusuf’s first death and definitely not his last. He sought out the Italian with the sea green eyes, swinging his own blade with fine tuned skill. His scimitar sliced through muscle, gnawed through bone. It cleaved Nicolo’s spine in two and his killer was back on shaky feet mere minutes later, glaring daggers.</p>
<p>       Forgiveness wasn’t given. It had to be earned.</p>
<p>       Either this was the ultimate test from Allah or di Genova’s god had a sick sense of humor because neither man died that day. Or the next. Or next. And Yusuf had tried *EVERYTHING.* Stabbing just caused blood to go everywhere. Strangulation burned and somewhere along the line, they’d run out of inspiration or desire to smite the other. And by then, there was nothing left but each other. So Yusuf did the only hospitable thing one could do- he dragged his mortal enemy to the nearest town for something to eat. But forgiveness? Hah, no. </p>
<p>       Yusuf honestly didn’t find himself *forgiving* the Italian until he realized the truth behind the nightmares. They were muttered in Latin, broken whispers and frantic prayers. Begging for forgiveness from his god, begging to be smited for crimes committed and ...other things.</p>
<p>       It was the “other” things that gave Yusuf pause. War was one thing. Pleading, tossing and turning at invisible hands and clawing at his throat, waking up with near tears in his eyes- Yusuf brokered peace with a bit of bread and some of the European’s beloved, stinky cheese. </p>
<p>       Nicolo never told him what the “other” things were but that was ok. Yusuf could piece it together. The occasional flinch as their hands touched. The first time they made love (because honestly, Yusuf couldn’t think of what else to call it. It was awkward and fumbling and sweet and Yusuf adored every second of it) that had Nicolo’s face flushed, his mouth open as Yusuf rocked upwards in time with their heartbeat, a fountain of praise pouring from his lips and shaking hands; how it finished with Nicolo rushing off to go scrub himself raw. And then there were the nightmares. Always the nightmares.</p>
<p>      Two decades had passed before Yusuf knew who caused them.</p>
<p>      He was old by then; a man whose own body had betrayed him, a heavy lump of putrid flesh and fluid nestled on a liver spotted collarbone, plaid skin pulled tight across his face. The bastard’s eyes went wide at the sight of Yusuf’s scimitar; the curved steel dripping in crimson, the white knuckles that gripped it, a promise for vengeance at last. “It was the drink,” the man had babbled. “The drink!”</p>
<p>      The drink- it was the drink that had made his beloved Nicolo, a *CHILD* then, alluring. The drink- that beckoned Nicolo in with kind words and tasty sweets. The drink- that fractured Nicolo over and over and left him bruised and bleeding. The drink- memories that scarred Nicolo to this day.</p>
<p>      The man’s death had not been quick.</p>
<p>      Booker was getting off easy.</p>
<p>       “Heart” His beloved’s voice nudged Joe from his thoughts. His favorite mug was being pressed into his hands; a lopsided, blue-gray thing with a few dents in it. Nicky had made it for his birthday years ago and Joe adored it, always sneaking it with him whenever it was time to relocate. “You’re quiet.”</p>
<p>       The smell of coffee made his toes curl. “Mmm?” Joe grinned. “I can be quiet.”</p>
<p>       Nicky’s smile was kind and disarming. The kind of smile that made Joe melt. “You can, but it's not you.”</p>
<p>       It was scalding hot, sliding down his throat with ease. “We should have picked a warmer spot, habibi.”</p>
<p>      “Mmm and miss this?” Nicky sank down on the old couch beside him; the springs creaked beneath their weight. The poor thing needed to be updated like the rest of this safehouse in Volgograd. This little shack with its scuffed brick walls and creaky floorboards, with three rooms that felt like closest, this entire place barely bigger than an American utility apartment. The basement was secured with countless locks and traps.  Joe looped an arm around his beloved and Nicky kissed his knuckles. “It’s cuddling.”</p>
<p>      “I much prefer you half naked in Mexico.” Skinny dipping at night in the Gulf of Mexico preferred, but not a necessity. Joe loved watching Nicky cook- slaving over every dish of the local culture, and his beloved’s enchiladas were heaven sent.</p>
<p>      Nicky’s lips skimmed against his pulse; a feather light kiss. “I can be half naked in the snow, too.”</p>
<p>      “Mmm don’t tempt me, habibi. Andy can still kill us.” Boss was a beautiful person, but even she drew the line at near constant, easy to see fucking. It was why they were (hopefully temporarily) banned from Malta. He tilted his head back, allowing his husband to kiss and nibble and lick at his pulse. The little ministrations made his breath hitch, his eyes fluttering closed.</p>
<p>       Joe could lose himself like this.</p>
<p>       Nicky’s cheek pressed against his collarbone, his husband warm and pliant against him. “Talk to me, Yusuf.”</p>
<p>      Yusuf. Joe exhaled, free hand reaching up to massage Nicky’s scalp. His fingers moved in tiny, slow circles- that perfect touch that could unwind any ounce of tension Nicky might have. Once upon a time, his husband had been petrified of something like this. “The past,” he confessed. “Booker.”</p>
<p>      “Booker.” Nicky’s hand settled on his thigh, long fingers doodling imaginary shapes on the thin denim. Swirling lines and dramatic trapezoids, little circles and half stenciled languages from memory; the lightest of touches burning into him. “It’s been a month.”</p>
<p>      “And he’s got ninety nine years and eleven months to go.”</p>
<p>      “Joe-”</p>
<p>      “He deserves it!” There’s a harshness in his voice, the grip on the mug painfully tight. “He sold us out. He almost killed Andy! He-” *You died because of this nonsense. You died and-* “Habibi,” the word was a near whisper. Nicky was watching him. Always watching, always listening. Joe’s throat hurt. “I love you.”</p>
<p>      Anyone else would have argued with him. Would have reminded Joe that they could heal. That it was just a little headshot and not his world exploding, ripping in two. Nicky had never been so simple though. His beloved offered  the tiniest of smiles, the delicate designs pausing. “‘Hayati, my everything. Ana baħibbak.”</p>
<p>      His chest hurt as Nicky’s fingers started again- delicate designs, fingertips grazing against his jeans. “...You don’t have to agree with me,” Nicky murmured. “But I think- I think we should reconsider the length of the sentence.” Joe opened his mouth to protest- reconsider? Did -did Booker reconsider selling them out? Did he ever have a fucking moment of hesitation when  Nicky was being dissected in front of Joe? No, the Frenchman was a fucking coward, off getting Andy shot and whining about how immortality hurts.</p>
<p>       “Andy’s going to die in a hundred years. Maybe less, Joe. That’s-” Nicky trailed off.</p>
<p>       That would destroy them all.</p>
<p>       “I got pierogi!” Nile’s voice echoed in the quiet; the click of a key sliding into the lock a grateful interruption. Nile came bounding in with an armful of paper bags, braids bouncing. She was decked in a blue fluffy parka, jeans, and thick boots; clearly tourist style clothing but it was the only thing they could find on such short notice. Boss was decidedly more local looking- her clothing was neutral tones, less frantic fluff and more controlled layers. </p>
<p>       A few dark strands fell into her eyes, Andy staring at the two men for a moment. She could read the tone of the room. “It’s just pierogi,” Andy sighed, closing the door behind them. She locked it with a flick of her wrist.</p>
<p>      “Yeah, in Russia!” Nile was practically beaming. “I-I kind of can’t wait for winter to come, no lie.”</p>
<p>      “Same same,” Joe hummed. “Any excuse to smother my love.”</p>
<p>       Nicky snorted, drumming a little beat on Joe’s knee. “Drink your coffee, heart.”</p>
<p>       The oldest immortal didn’t even bother rolling her eyes. She strode forward, towards the makeshift kitchen to help Nile unload. “Any news?”<br/>Nicky shook his head. “Nothing from London.”</p>
<p>      “And Paris?”</p>
<p>       Joe forced himself to exhale. To sound...to sound like the very mention of that city where the traitor was didn’t bother him. “No. Booker’s quiet.”</p>
<p>       Nicky gently squeezed his knee. Nile cast a glance between them all; she’d learn how to read the others with time. Joe just didn’t have the energy to explain. Not now. “Good,” came Andy’s clipped reply. “Keep an ear out. London’s going to be hot for a while.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 5-Booker</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Is that a hint of Papa Booker I see lol? Also known as, Booker is starting to rediscover some super buried parental instincts there, even if he still has the booze...</p><p>Anyhoo, hope yall like it &lt;3 Let me know what you think.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She spoke passable French, for a foreigner.</p><p>       Little Shit was definitely not a native speaker; Booker could catch the slight inflections in her voice, the occasional word that sounded wrong to his ears. If he had to pick a nationality, he’d guess American. It was even harder trying to pinpoint her ethnicity with her looks- the girl was pale and far too thin to be healthy, wavy black hair a frizzy, matted mess pulled back into a haphazard ponytail. Her good eye was a dark brown, a heavy splash of freckles on her cheeks and over the bridge of a button nose. If he had to guess an age now...maybe thirteen? fourteen?</p><p>       There was a slight hobble in her step; her clothes were far too big for her. A threadbare, patched sweater that showed off a bare shoulder and a grayish-yellowish splotch that seemed to be seared into the bone (*bruised,* the thought made his teeth grit. *Definitely the imprint of someone’s fingers*), jeans splotched with dark stains and barely hanging off her boney hips. “Are-are you mad at me, sir?”</p><p>       Booker blinked. Ah, apparently he’d been staring. He offered the girl a tiny shrug as they approached a small store. It was the closest one to his place- the front one perpetually stained with grime, the floor sticky and the booze endless. The cashier was a girl of about twenty with glasses and a name that would always escape Booker; her eyes flickered from Booker’s familiar form to Little Shit and the frown was instantaneous. Like he did this.  *Bitch.* </p><p>        He ambled to the back, past the rows of inviting whiskey bottles to peer at the medical supplies. Or rather, what this place had as medical supplies. Band-aids, a gel type ice pack, a bandanna. “I don’t have a reason to.”</p><p>        The girl watched him grab every item, staying a good three or four feet behind him. Just out of reach. “I-,” she bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>         Well fuck her lip was cracked to hell. Might as well get some chapstick. Booker scooped a cherry flavored chapstick off the shelf. A bottle of witch hazel caught his eye- might as well get that and another bottle of liquor maybe? “What’s your name, Little Shit?”</p><p>         Just the tiniest of flinches. Yeah, Booker was going to need that bottle. “Claire,” she mumbled, watching him pluck a bottle of whiskey off the top shelf. Claire. Amélie had always wanted to call their daughter Charlotte or Celeste, if they’d ever had a girl. Instead, they had three little hellions, each one more precious than the last.  “See anything you want?”</p><p>         Silence.</p><p>         Booker had been around Nicky long enough to read silence. The slight purse of the Italian’s lips meant he was thinking about his reply, a furrowed brow indicative of worry. Claire- she was scared shitless. Her good eye was wide, legs stiff like a petrified rabbit ready to bolt. “You won’t owe me,” He sighed, spinning on his heels. The cashier was glaring daggers at them. “Just grab a Snickers or something and lets go.”</p><p>        His boots clicked against the floor, hand slipping into his pocket. “She’s a bit young for you, isn’t she,” the cashier sniffed, arms crossed over her ample chest. </p><p>        “I’m not fucking her.”</p><p>        The cashier’s nose scrunched at the word. “Oh God-”</p><p>        He pulled out a ball of crumpled euros, tossing them on the scuffed counter. “Here. You got a brush or anything back there?”</p><p>        The item was practically thrown at his face. Hot pink and glittery- girls liked glitter right? “Is that all,” the cashier snapped, clearly done with this bullshit. </p><p>        The quiet pitter patter of shaky feet was almost inaudible. Swallowed up by the wheezing of the air conditioner and the angry click of the cashier’s manicured nails stabbing at the plastic keys. Booker glanced over to his shoulder to see Claire watching from behind a mountain of chips. Clutched in her tiny fist was a bright red bag-Skittles? “And the Skittles too.”</p><p>        “Is.That.All?” </p><p>        Booker frowned, gaze flicking past the woman. There was a plethora of cigarettes, little knick knacks and whatnot behind her. But- the pen knives are what caught his eye. There were glossy chrome ones, rainbow chrome, purple, green and... one lone black one. All black with the blade being about three or four inches. Small and easily hidden. “The black pen knife.”</p><p>        It was practically thrown at his face. His change was slammed down and everything shoved into a bag, desperate to get Booker out. Fine by him. He didn’t want to be out and about any longer than he had to. He took the items and started the slow shuffle back to his flat, acutely aware that Claire was trailing behind him by a good three or four feet. </p><p>        He plucked the folded pen knife from the bag and paused in mid-step to toss it at her chest. Claire squeaked, Skittles still clutched in one hand and the other frantically trying to catch the knife. “W-what-” it clattered to the ground and the teen scooped it up. </p><p>        “Stab me with it.” Booker shrugged, padding along once more. “If you think something bad is going to happen. Don’t be afraid to hurt someone.”</p><p>        He could see his flat from here: a four story building that had been around since the sixties, paint peeling from the walls and the stench of mold hanging heavy in the air. “I-I don’t want to stab anyone though,” she whispered.</p><p>        “Most people don’t,” the immortal agreed. He sidestepped past dog shit, hands slipping into his jacket. “But it’ll keep you safe.”<br/>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>        Amélie would know what to say.</p><p>        His wife could charm the stars out of the sky. She could haggle with the best old ladies in any marketplace; from Nice to Calais, from one end of the Earth to the other. She had a smile that made Booker forget how to breathe, a touch that could make his will crumble with the softest caress. *Oh Sebastien,* Booker could imagine her sighing. *Just let it happen. Words will come.*</p><p>        He had cobbled something for the two of them to eat- French onion soup, a glass of whiskey for himself and a glass of water for the kid. The soup was currently a bit...scorched...but cooking had never been his forte. “...I..uh..here.” He dumped a portion of it in a bowl, moving the dingy dish away from him. He could hear Claire’s tentative footsteps and a quick glance to the left told him she’d snatched it up, spoon in tow.</p><p>         She was already at the table, his makeshift wrap snug around her injured eye. It had taken liberal doses of witch hazel and the ice pack itself to bring down the swelling to an acceptable level. Booker got some of his own slop and padded over, choosing to sink down on worn couch. “Oh.” Claire’s eye went wide as she nibbled at a spoonful.</p><p>        “Heh, what? That bad?”</p><p>        The young girl shook her head, tangled mats flopping about. “N-No! It’s good!”</p><p>         Now that was some bullshit. Booker laughed before he could stop himself; a deep, warm laugh. “Don’t lie to me, mon cherie. I know a fri-” the word died in his throat. No. No, they weren’t friends anymore. Booker was in exile, remember? Booker’s smile faded. “A guy,” he finished. “A guy friend. He could make Michelin chefs cry with joy.”</p><p>          Claire tilted her head to one side, spoon dipping in for another bite. “...Your...boyfriend?”</p><p>         “Once upon a time, yes.” When Booker was younger and stupid and thought he could ever fit into Joe and Nicky’s perfect little world. When he thought he could erase Amélie’s soft lips with the scratchiness of Joe’s beard or see Nicky work wonders in a kitchen and muse on how Amélie was the master of her universe there. How she somehow got perfect meals done while dragging Edmund around by his ear; their eldest starting another fight over something stupid.</p><p>          Booker had been such a fucking idiot. He probably still was.</p><p>          Thunder rolled off in the distance- a heavy rumble that seemed to shake even his old bones. “I should be asking the questions, mon chou.” He tried a bit of his own creation- the shit was *CRUNCHY.* The immortal made a face and set his spoon down, opting instead to take a sip of whiskey. Part of him was pleased to note that Claire had his pen knife by her right hand; so she listened to him. “What’s an American doing in Paris?” *In your state,* was left unsaid.</p><p>          Claire froze. The shift was instantaneous. From shy, cautious teenager to a near statute- her nostrils flaring, , fingers tightening around her spoon. Her face paled, the chair squeaking back as it was inched back.</p><p>          Booker made no move. He stared at her, waiting. Letting the silence settle over them- thick and suffocating. “Please,” she started, her voice cracking. “Please don’t.”</p><p>         “Your parents-”</p><p>          A strangled whine ended that sentence. Runaway? Booker exhaled, listening to the first few raindrops smack against his windowpane. *Just let it happen. Words will come.*</p><p>         Claire tentatively poked at her soup, the tension in her body finally lessening...somewhat. She was still stiff. Still scared shitless- Booker could see it in how pale she was, in the slight tremor of her hand as she uselessly stabbed at her food. A tiny dollop was brought to her lips, the gulp painfully loud even to Booker. “...Please don’t take me back.”</p><p>         Back where? That was a loaded demand. Booker certainly couldn’t take her in; he was immortal. Immortals- Amélie - his *sons*-</p><p>        *Fuck, I can’t leave her.*</p><p>        And that was the worst thing. Booker couldn’t leave Little Shit here. If he did, her fate would be set in stone. The streets were never kind, especially to children. If he took her under her wing, it would just be repeating the same mistakes. He could already hear Andy now. Demanding he see reason. Demanding he remember what happened to Remy. To his biological family; what would happen to the other immortals if someone else (a child in this case. Children *talk*!!) knew.  If he sent her back-</p><p>         NO.</p><p>         The idea made his blood run cold. He’d find out who did this to her. Who did this to a *CHILD* without a single shred of remorse. They would be pissing lead by the time Booker was done with them. </p><p>         Claire was staring at him, pen knife in hand. Waiting for his answer.</p><p>         Booker offered a tiny smile, taking a quick shot. The whiskey slid down his throat, the warmth enveloping him like an old friend. “Promise, kid. You’re not going back.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 6- Claire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Quick TW- there is a very brief mention of some of the abuse Claire has gone through (groping) in the second paragraph. There's also her wondering if Booker's going to rape her (obviously not but given what she's gone through, its understandable). I'm aiming to make their father-daughter relationship age as naturally as I can, which means quite a bit fear and distrust on her side first, before she warms up to him. Likewise, Booker has to get used to being a "Dad" again (not to mention his depression and coping issues and oh boy Booker has some work to do...)</p>
<p>But yay for Skittle pancakes and knife bonding?</p>
<p>Anyhoo, I hope yall like it &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pretty words for pretty lies.</p>
<p>       Claire offered the man a tiny smile, knife still clutched in her fist. She-she wasn’t some idiot! Plenty of adults had told her the same thing. That they cared for her. That she wouldn’t go back. All she had to do was sit in their laps and let their hands wander- slide under her clothes and grip and squeeze until she was squirming. Till her throat was painfully tight and her hands were shaking and the numbness settled over like a warm blanket on a winter’s night. And in return-she got little things. </p>
<p>       An actual meal. A hot shower. Maybe even some euros to give to Jean. All she had to do was become a plaything. Her gaze flickered down to her soup. It was lukewarm now, the spoon hovering over it.</p>
<p>       She wasn’t sure she could handle anything like that from Booker.</p>
<p>“      M-may I take a shower?”</p>
<p>      “ Yeah if you want.” Booker was sniffing at his own creation, nose wrinkling before he took another bite. “Shower’s off to the right. Twist the knob on the left for hot water.”</p>
<p>      Claire nodded, grabbing the knife before she made a run for it. The floorboards moaned beneath her weight, the pocketknife a small comfort. She slammed the door, scrambling for a lock.</p>
<p>      Nothing. No lock. The door was either too old or too worn to lock and her hands were already trembling. Claire bit her bottom lip; a quick burst of iron, ears straining to hear the floorboards. Nothing.</p>
<p>      *It’s- it’s gonna hurt.* The thought made her skin crawl. She didn’t move. Not until she heard the quiet clink of a spoon hitting porcelain, a rhythmic beat that told her Booker was eating. Then she was slowly peeling off her clothes, one protective layer at a time. The water gurgled in the rusted pipes before it came spurting out and Claire made sure it was scalding. Just a little bit of heat, just something to get rid of the chill that was threatening to bring her knees. </p>
<p>       She stayed until her skin was bright red and steam covered every bruise and every scrape. Dirt came off her flakes as she scratched at herself clean, willing her hands to be steady just this once. And once Claire deemed herself clean enough, she turned off the shower. She could hear the floorboards creak, gaze darting to the door.</p>
<p>      Still closed. There was a shadow under the door; Booker. Something thudded against it before she heard him clear his throat. “Got a blanket for you. I’ll be on the couch.”</p>
<p>      Couch. Right. </p>
<p>       Claire didn’t bother drying off. She just shimmed back into her clothes and pulled her knees up to her chest, back pressed against the damp tub. Waiting for the inevitable. <br/>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>	She woke up with her cheek pressed against the tile and no bruises. It was...odd. Claire sat up, rubbing at her eyes. She didn’t know when she’d passed out. The last thing she remembered was waiting for the door to open and her eyelids feeling so heavy. Even the pen knife felt like a lead weight. She closed her eyes, if only for a moment…</p>
<p>	...And here she was. Claire’s knees popped as she rose to her feet and she cracked the door open. The blanket was there- a folded square of cotton. And- oh.</p>
<p>	Oh. </p>
<p>	Booker was on the floor like her. Claire opened the door a hair wider, staring at the sight. The man was propped up against the wall, head on his chest and one leg stretched out. The other was propped up, arm loosely draped over his knee. Tucked in by his side was a bottle (*the same one? Maybe?*) and his shirt was scrunched up on one side. A gun; the glint of black metal barely visible in the dim light, half hidden by the fabric. A green eye popped open and Booker rolled his neck to the right. She couldn’t help but cringe at how it crackled. “What-what are you doing, sir?”</p>
<p>	“Sleeping.”</p>
<p>	The girl blinked, finally opening the door so she could leave. “On the floor?”</p>
<p>	“The couch hurt my back.” The man rose to his feet. “You?”<br/>	*You said you’d be on the couch.* Claire frowned. It was almost like he was protecting- No. She shook the thought from her head, fingers curled around her pen knife. “I took a shower.”</p>
<p>	That earned a nod, the man adjusting his shirt so the gun was out of sight. “Got any Skittles left? I could try my hand at pancakes.”</p>
<p>	“Skittle pancakes?!” She clapped her hands over her mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle the excitement that dared sneak out. “I-um,” for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a smile flicker across the older man’s face. “Are you sure?”</p>
<p>	“I can’t cook to save my life, kid. You’re the one that’s going to be eating it; what do you want?”</p>
<p>	Something in her chest hurt- a dull pain that made her want to cry. “Skittle pancakes please.”</p>
<p>	Booker gestured to the red candy bag on the table. He padded off towards the kitchen and Claire followed dutifully behind. Always three to four feet; the right distance to avoid a quick punch or kick. Though- the girl tilted her head.</p>
<p>	Booker wasn’t lying when he said he couldn’t cook. He was slapping things together haphazardly- thick gooey batter whisked with a bent fork, cursing under his breath as he dropped globs of it on an oiled pan. The Skittles were sprinkled in and the end result was something that was not quite crispy black on the edges, dark brown mixed in with green and orange and red splotches. Claire loved it.</p>
<p>	She devoured every piece, ripping it apart and stuffing it in her mouth with abandon. Drinking water was an afterthought; she was too busy being *fed.* “What,” She chewed happily, watching Booker lean against the counter. He was pouring liquor in a cup, but Claire didn’t know what it was. “What about you?”</p>
<p>	“Hm?” Booker tossed it back with a flick of the wrist. </p>
<p>	“What are you going to eat for breakfast?” Claire licked her fingers; every crumb had been thoroughly wiped up. </p>
<p>	He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m not hungry.”</p>
<p>	“Oh. Did- did I eat it all?” It wouldn’t be out of character if she did. Never thinking about others; just herself. Claire flinched, staring down at her empty plate. “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>	The Frenchman frowned, a deep line forming in his brow. “...You don’t-” He cleared his throat, reaching for the bottle. She watched him take a long swig; three deep gulps before he swayed for a moment, setting it back on the counter. “You need a haircut, kid.”</p>
<p>	A haircut?!  Her hand immediately slipped into her pocket to grab her penknife. “Why?”</p>
<p>	“You look like a sheepdog.” An eyebrow arched at her movement.  “You do know how to stab someone right?”</p>
<p>	Irritation rushed through her before she could stop it. Her mouth opened for a moment, snapping shut before she shot the older man a look. “C-Course I do,” she huffed. She pulled out her pen knife and the little blade popped free. “You stick them with the pointy end.” She waggled at the air to prove her point.</p>
<p>	 There was a flicker of a smile on Booker’s face- a quick blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile before he hummed.“...You stab like this.” The man turned around, digging for something in the sink before he held up a butter knife. “See how I hold it.” His fingers were wrapped around the belly of the handle, thumb pressing against his forefinger. Claire immediately followed suit, fixing her hold on the pen knife. “My wrist is locked,” he continued. “It’s square. The knife is pointed up. Got it?”</p>
<p>	She nodded, staring down at her own fist. “But...but no waggle right?”</p>
<p>	“No waggle,” the man agreed. “You want controlled movements. The whole point of a knife is,” he paused as if searching for the right words. “Think of them like claws for a cat. The hardest thing to defend against.”</p>
<p>	Claws for a cat. Claire offered the air before a tentative poke. They certainly didn’t feel like claws. “What if I’m attacked?”</p>
<p>	Booker inhaled, fingers tight around the butter knife. “Then you run, mon cherie. Don’t try to fight. Don’t try to be a hero. Run.”</p>
<p>	Run. Claire could do that; she was always running. “But,” she chewed on her bottom lip, gaze dropping to her hand. “What if I can’t run? Do I just stab them in the stomach?”</p>
<p>	“Balls,” Booker replied. “You stab them in the balls if at all possible.” There was a flash of metal, the butter knife spinning in his hand before the tip of it was pressed against the inside of his thigh. “The femoral artery is here. Cut that and you’ll bleed out in minutes. It burns like a bitch.”</p>
<p>	Her own knife drifted to that point, the tip lightly pressed against her own thigh. She didn’t think weakness was that close. “Oh. It’s,” she licked her lips, wincing at how cracked they were. “It’s that close? On me too?”</p>
<p>	Booker nodded.</p>
<p>	“But how do I stop-”</p>
<p>	“I’ll tell you more if you let me cut your hair.” The knife was tossed back into the sink with a loud clang.</p>
<p>	“Jean...He wouldn’t like that.” The older teen would be furious with her. Her long hair was one of her best features; it made Claire look far younger than she was. “He’ll be mad at me.”</p>
<p>	Something was wrong. She could sense it- watching the older man’s whole countenance change. He went stiff like a wolf with its hackles raised. A smile that was more strained, like fangs mere inches from being bared. “Oh,” he said and his voice was far colder, far sharper than anything Claire had heard before. “Is he the one that wants my jacket?”</p>
<p>	She couldn’t lie to the man; she nodded. “Y-you won’t hurt him right?” She tried to sound calm. To not sound like a little kid. Jean’s anger was nothing to play with. He had an iron fist and on more than one occasion, Claire had seen his wrath. “He’s only doing what the adults are telling him too!”</p>
<p>	“I’ll be the judge of that, le petit ami.” Booker exhaled and that *look*, that thing that reminded Claire so much of a predator on the hunt seemed to fade away. He was different again. Drunk, quiet, a slight wobble as he reached for that precious bottle once more. It was raised to his lips, gaze studying her for a moment. “...I could try hacking at your hair. Can’t promise it’ll be magazine worthy. Do you trust me?”</p>
<p>	Her thumb slowly popped the blade back into place. Claire squeezed her pen knife for a second or two; a quick squeeze, knuckles turning white. Trust? Jean would be mad. Jean would be fucking furious. But this Booker...  He was far different from any adult Claire had ever known. She nodded, tentatively slipping the pen knife into her pocket. “Yes,” she whispered, barely audible over the air conditioner. “I do.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. 7-Keane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lol I had half of this typed up before my eye decided it was the perfect time to get infected. So sorry for the late post &lt;3</p>
<p>The chap opens up with Keane experiencing what its like to drown via dream/in Quynh's place. So if the topic of drowning makes you uneasy, just a heads up.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>*The cold carves its way into his bones. Its cruel and unrelenting- the pressure building in his chest, hands clawing against rusted metal. Spurts of red swirl past his face, shards of metal digging into his fists. And the pressure is building with every second, crushing his chest.</p>
<p>        One.</p>
<p>        Keane’s crying, if he could cry.</p>
<p>        Two.</p>
<p>        His throat is burning, a franticness overtaking him. He wants to get out. He wants to get out-</p>
<p>        Three.</p>
<p>        Keane screams. </p>
<p>       The water rushes in without mercy. It claws down his throat and floods his lungs. It rips him apart from the inside out, thread by thread. His screams are muffled by the depth as it starts. The burning, his eyesight fading. His body convulses as the ocean strangles him. It’s always swift. It’s always certain. </p>
<p>       His eyes open, ready to begin again.*</p>
<p>       “...Fuck.” It’s a weak wheeze, his own hand wrapped around his throat as if he could claw out the last vestiges of water. “Fuck its getting worse.”</p>
<p>       The first time Keane drowned in his sleep, it wasn’t him. It was an Asian woman. He could see her trapped in her iron hell- the long dark strands that curled out from the eyeholes, from the mouth of her iron casket. The second time, *he* was there.</p>
<p>       It was Keane trying to scream. Keane drowning over and over and-</p>
<p>      The third time, Keane was tired of this shit.</p>
<p>      He reached for his laptop, the computer whirring to life. His entire life was in this little machine. Every email, every tagged photo- snapshots of Aaron and him when they were doe eyed little shits straight out of secondary school, arms slung around their shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. Eileen- *Sister Eileen,* the thought makes Keane frown, his mouse hovering over his photo album. Just begging for a click. Just pleading for him to look at a curly redheaded girl he would have moved the sun for. *She’s Sister Eileen now.*- was even there. And now-</p>
<p>      The mouse clicked on his latest folder. There was a monster buried in the ocean. A demon that had burrowed itself in the freaks mind, decade by decade, century by century.</p>
<p>       Keane typed out a quick pm before he returned his attention to his notes. He’d be able to pinpoint the iron maiden itself; it had a unique design, construction originating in Nuremberg (Keane made sure to put a question mark by it; it was definitely European or German in nature) and very few of *that* design had left the landlocked country. A handful had been sent to England and Keane decided to start with home first- a bishop in a lil seaside village near Heacham had ordered one for a witch-</p>
<p>       A message blinked from the lower right hand corner; Keane had woken Aaron up: ‘Fucker it is three am.’</p>
<p>       Keane grinned despite himself, fingers flying over the keyboard. ‘ I had another dream. Any word on the others?’</p>
<p>       He watched the little dots appear- rolling up and down, spinning out a message. Probably a litany of curses before Keane got two words: ‘Fuck you.’</p>
<p>       ‘It’s important.’</p>
<p>       The ding was fired back just as fast: ‘My sleep is important.’</p>
<p>       ‘Fuck you and your sleep. Aaron, please.’</p>
<p>        Silence. Not even three little dots waving up and down. Either Keane had truly pissed off his unflappable friend or the man was wandering around half dead looking for notes. And then! The ding was heaven sent, two words causing the former soldier to perk up. ‘Call me.’</p>
<p>        Keane did as he was told, practically flying for his phone. He fumbled with the passcode, smashing Aaron’s name on the screen. The beautiful bastard answered on the first ring. “I better be smothered in strippers come Christmas,” his friend grumbled, hoarse and half dead to the world. “You hear me? *Smothered!*”</p>
<p>        “Talk about your kinks later, git. What do you have?”</p>
<p>        Aaron snorted and Keane heard the bed creak. “One of your freaks; he’s in France. Hold on, sending you pics now.”</p>
<p>        His laptop dinged and Keane tucked his phone in close to his ear as he opened the first of-holy shit, Aaron was firing them off. Photos upon photos of the Frenchman, the *traitor*. Keane would recognize that man anywhere- face almost always flushed, high cheekbones, brown hair swept back in some photos and tousled in others. The leather jacket was unmistakable; well worn and soft looking, mostly slung over his shoulder. He’d gone by “Booker” when he approached Merrick for a cure. “Where’s he at?”</p>
<p>        “Paris,” his friend yawned. “Don’t know the exact location. The man’s damn near a fucking ghost. I only found him because of her.”</p>
<p>        Her?</p>
<p>       Another ding, a photo popping up. One that definitely perked Keane’s interest.</p>
<p>       “His kid?” Keane clicked on it to enhance, mouse hovering over the young girl. She looked to be about thirteen or fourteen with black chopped in a messy bob. She lingered a good three or four feet behind, one hell of a shiner on her right eye. It was well on its way to healing: a splotch of red and gray tinged yellow, the dress she wore white with sunflowers littered across it. The leather jacket she wore was the immortal’s; it dwarfed her frame. And clutched in her arm was a giant bag filled with what Keane assumed to be clothes. Or maybe liquor? Or food?</p>
<p>       “No idea. She’s just as much of a ghost as he is. She’s in a couple more pictures though. They know each other.”</p>
<p>        This-this was good. “Great.” Keane cleared his throat, nodding. “How’d you find her?”</p>
<p>        The sound of papers shuffling before Keane’s computer dinged again. “This. I got a...uh...a friend in finance security.”</p>
<p>        It was a video this time. Security footage of a bank. Keane squinted, eyes darting this way and that before he saw them- the pair in the upper right hand corner, attempting to thread into a crowd from an alleyway. The grainy image of the girl but this time she looked...filthy. Dirt crusted and definitely more bruised, clad in stained jeans. Keane watched her throw herself back, hands grabbing fistfuls of her hair and yanking it. </p>
<p>        The video was far too blurry to see her face, but Keane could almost feel the fear radiating off her small frame. The throng of people seemed to petrify her.</p>
<p>        And the immortal! Keane watched the camera catch a beautiful shot of Booker’s face as the man spun around. The immortal’s tall form threading back to the child with ease, to the safety of a dingy French alley. It was too far away to tell if they were talking but Keane kept track of the time.</p>
<p>        Five minutes.</p>
<p>        Five minutes of standing in muck and trash before the girl gave a tiny nod. She seemed to throw herself into the closest opening she could find, slinking against a brick wall and the freak followed suit, causing the flow behind him to halt. People could skirt around a tiny teenager. They couldn’t skirt around a grown man trying to make himself as big as possible. “He’s giving her room,” Keane murmured.</p>
<p>       “What?”</p>
<p>       “We can go after the kid. Get the kid, the bastard will come running.” </p>
<p>        A pause. Not even shuffling paper or clicking keys, but an actual fucking pause. “Hey man,” Aarons started.</p>
<p>       “He killed my men!” There was a sharpness in his voice. Something almost tinged with franticness. “Hs fucking friends and him- they slaughtered them!” *They killed me. You may not believe it but they killed ME.*</p>
<p>       “But this is a kid-”</p>
<p>       “Collins had a kid! Daerni just had a daughter! Sam and Maverick were engaged,” Keane snapped back. “You didn’t have to go to their funerals. You didn’t have to talk to their wives or their families. I did!”</p>
<p>       “...So what, you're going to kill a kid?”</p>
<p>      “No.” But the truth was far darker than that. The truth was ‘I don’t know.’ “But she’s got power. She’s got leverage.”</p>
<p>       Aaron’s exhale was soft. “I thought we were going to shoot this man in the face.”</p>
<p>       “We are,” Keane replied. His gaze was fastened on the pair’s retreating figures. On the immortal and his charge as they floated out of the frame. “We’re going to hunt them all down.”</p>
<p>        And rip apart everything they held dear.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. 8-Joe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It opens up with a quick flashback of sorts into their past. Because being long lived and romance is never easy. Eventually we'll get some smut lol. But this had to be done-the slow move forward towards their former lover, even if its gonna take the three of them a while to bond again. </p><p>I wonder who Beyele is looking for? Hm~</p><p>I hope yall like it &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>*1886*<br/>
*He should have known the Frenchman would be drunk off his ass. It was a certainty. Like the sun that rises in the east and falls in the west. Like knowing your body will heal from a cut or bones will crack with enough pressure. Booker and liquor had gone hand in hand since 1849 when-</p><p>Joe frowned. Talking about Amélie le Livre was- it was one of the few things the four immortals didn’t talk about. Andy refused to remiss (openly) about Quynh. Nicky rarely mentioned his childhood, for good reason. Joe didn’t like to talk about those horrid, handful of times where he hurt his beloved. Over and over and over again- slashing and stabbing and strangling until his hands were bruised or covered in blood. But Madame le Livre? October 10, 1849 at three am was the first time Joe watched Sebastien crawl into a bottle and he’d never left.</p><p>	 Joe watched Sebastien nurse his rum, gaze fastened on the scuffed table. Paris was brimming with life just beyond this cell. Women dolled up in the finest silk dresses: splashes of pink and yellow, humble greens and suave blues. Polka dots and bows, snow white lace trimming along the hems. Vendors crying out for those with coin to try their wares, children running wild. People were *living*, damn it. Not holed up in a dusty kitchen, drinking the umpteenth shot like it would be the one to kill him.</p><p>“Another one?” Jon leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.</p><p>	“Would you prefer me chasing the dragon?”</p><p>         “I’d prefer you sober. We- consent is important. We want you to be happy.”</p><p>	A flicker of a smile danced across his face. It was a burst of light; a shooting star on a moonless night. *Fuck,* the thought popped in Joe’s head, *He’s gorgeous when he smiles.* “Was this your idea or Nicky’s?”</p><p>	He moved on his own- a quick push off the edge of the doorway, the older immortal covering the desert between them in three easy strides. Sebastien to his credit didn’t flinch. Or maybe he  was too drunk to reel from something as intimate as this- Joe’s palm cupping the Frenchman’s cheek, a callused thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “It was ours, habib qalbi.”*</p><p>	“I can’t feel my legs!” Nile’s voice yanked Joe from the past; a declaration of exhaustion that made the immortal teleport from Paris 1886 to the present. He blinked, rag in hand as he caught sight of their newest member plopping down on the old couch. Nicky had gotten her new clothes- *better* clothes-, the kind a local might wear. More dark layers and less puffy neon down jackets, thick wool socks meant to keep out the cold. She was currently in the process of shedding her clothes,  her body slick with sweat. “H-how did you even survive with Andy as teacher?”</p><p>	“Complaining already?” Joe grinned, reaching for a dab of oil. He had Nicky’s guns laid out on the table; each one going to be thoroughly cleaned before he touched his own. “It’s only been a month and some change, kiddo.”</p><p>	“Pah. It feels like two centuries.” Nile rolled herself into a sitting position, two coats shrugged off her thin frame. “You ok, Joe?”</p><p>	“Yeah.” Joe raised an eyebrow; Nile Freeman would probably never be good at hiding her emotions. “What’s on your mind?”</p><p>	“I-what!” Her eyes went wide before she shook her head. “Nothing! I mean, well not nothing but-er- Do you mind if I ask you something?”</p><p>	“‘Mmm I like pineapple on pizza?”</p><p>	The American scrunched up her nose before she grinned. “Yeah no.  You’ve got no taste in pizza, dude.”</p><p>	*Dude.* The term was so modern. So relaxed. “Nicky likes to read trashy bodice rippers sometimes.”</p><p>	Her giggle was soft, the young woman rising to her feet. She plopped down in the chair beside him, watching Joe as he got to work brushing out gunk from the barrel of an empty revolver. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She tucked a few braids behind her ear. “No I mean something... something personal.”</p><p>	“I’m an open book, Nile.”</p><p>	“Do-” she paused and Joe watched her cheeks flush; a bright pink hue that made her eyes shine. “I mean, I think… I could be wrong, you know. I probably am. But er- AreyouokwithBookerbeinggone?”</p><p>	...Was that English? Joe blinked, brain whirring to decipher the words. It sounded like English. He was fairly certain it *was* English. But it had all been sputtered out in a single breath- awkward and nervous, shifting in her seat.  “I’m sorry?”</p><p>	Nile inhaled as if that could keep her from rattling off her question again. “Are you ok with Booker being gone?”</p><p>	Ah. This was bound to come up. “I think a century is a well deserved punishment.”</p><p>	“But that doesn’t- are you ok with Booker being gone?”</p><p>	Joe had lost one star in his long life. He couldn’t bear to lose his moon. “Yes,” came the reply; a near whisper and Joe wished he could feel as confident as he sounded. </p><p>	Nile frowned. It didn’t suit her; she was far too young, far too kind hearted to look that worried. “Are you sure? I mean...I know he was a close friend-”</p><p>	He was more than that, heart. He was another lover for the two men. Someone they trusted. Someone *Nicky* trusted, and Joe knew how hard it was for his husband to trust anyone in that capacity. But- “It doesn’t excuse what he did.” There was more confidence in Joe’s voice, more strength. He exhaled, setting his gun down. “Nicky was tortured, Nile.” They both were. “He was-” the immortal trailed off.  It was another nightmare. Another memory to make a restless night. </p><p>	“...You’re right. I-I’m sorry.” Nile offered him a contrite smile. “I guess, everyone was together for so long and a century seems like forever-”</p><p>	“A century will pass by faster than you realize, kiddo. It’ll be ok.”</p><p>	The young woman but he could tell the words did little to mend the sting. Joe couldn’t blame her. They courted death constantly and now Nile would too. An ugly fact of life; if only they could have kept someone as sweet and kind as Nile from this. “Want to help?” Anything to break the silence, to nudge that frown from her young face. Nile perked up at his voice. “It usually helps me to keep my hands busy.”</p><p>	“Oh, when you’re not sucking face?”</p><p>	He grinned before he could stop himself. “Definitely when I’m sucking face.”</p><p>	Nile giggled again; a light, cheery sound. “Dirty old man. How does Nicky put up with you?”</p><p>	“Well I can do this thing with my tongue-”</p><p>	“Gross! No no don’t tell me!” Her laughter was infectious, a bright red staining her cheeks. “You start that, and you’ll be cleaning all this by yourself!”</p><p>	Joe dramatically sighed, setting the revolver down. “Fineee. I’ll be good~”<br/>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>
Nile was out.</p><p>	The kid- or rather young woman since she *was* twenty six, if Joe remember correctly- was out, curled up in her cot fast asleep. They’d be moving to another safe house. One with actual rooms and privacy  so they could each carve a little time out from the world. Little breaks of time, so Joe and Nicky could fuck each other’s brains out without concern and curl up late at night, tea optional. The location was still up for grabs but Sweden seemed like a nice stop.</p><p>	At least before they got the message.</p><p>	The two men were curled up together on the couch, Joe’s arm slung around Nicky, hand rubbing up and down his arm in smooth, steady motions. Nicky’s head was nestled into the hollow of Joe’s throat, eyes closed. Andy was sitting on the other side of it, dark hair falling into her eyes as she leaned forward staring intently at the screen. “Do we want to take this,” Boss mused.</p><p>	“Can we trust Copley?” Nicky reached for Joe’s free hand, kissing his knuckles. He threaded their fingers together. “I don’t want a repeat of Merrick.”</p><p>	Joe gently squeezed Nicky’s upper arm. “That will never happen again, habibi.”</p><p>	Nicky’s smile was sweet, a thumb skirting over Joe’s knuckle. </p><p>	Andy exhaled, leaning back into the old cushions. “He seems to be telling the truth. It’s just another rich fucker toying with people’s lives. Benjamin Beyele,” she paused, running a hand through her short dark hair. “Friends with a local Albanian mob boss’s son; known for dabbling in coke, crack-”</p><p>	“Boss?” Joe tilted his head to one side. He heard the small crack in the older woman’s voice. He saw how Andy leaned forward again- the slight nervousness in her voice gone. Andy’s shoulders were stiff, her gaze dark. Her face perfectly blank-a predator sensing prey. The look of a *kill* in the air, her hands flexing as if she couldn’t wait to wring someone’s neck. </p><p>        “He’s a pedophile.” Andy sounded calm. So calm despite the rage just brimming beneath the surface. “Human sex trafficking, primarily with children.”</p><p>        Nicky stiffened in his arms and Joe kissed his forehead. “Consider him dead.”</p><p>       “Trash like that doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as us,” Nicky muttered under his breath. He cleared his throat, speaking just a little louder: “Where is this Beyele located?”</p><p>       “Paris.”</p><p>       Of course he was. Joe frowned, toying with Nicky’s slim fingers.  “For how long?”</p><p>        “He stays in France for several months at a time,” Andy replied. She clicked on the screen, humming again. “Apparently something happened five years ago in France; he could be looking for someone.  He doesn’t have much pull in France itself.”</p><p>        “Someone that saw reason and left,” Nicky murmured.</p><p>         “A child,” Joe added. All of it was a shot in the dark; so long as this Beyele stayed still long enough so Joe could slit his throat was all the immortal cared about. “A lover?”</p><p>         “Fuck if I know,” the older immortal scoffed. “But he’s definitely looking for someone. Copley said he’s hired local officers around the city limits to hunt this person down and they came up with nothing. Every time he enters Paris, security beefs up.” Her dark gaze flickered to the two lovers. “Booker’s there.”</p><p>         “We don’t need Booker.” Joe may have said that too quickly. A harshness in his voice that made Nicky look up at him and Andy raise a thin, dark eyebrow at his outburst. Well fuck. “We don’t need his help,” he repeated, slower this time.</p><p>         “He knows Paris like the back of his hand.”</p><p>         “We all know French.”</p><p>         “And if Nicky misses his shot,” Andy countered, “then we’ll need someone to get in close to do the deed. And Beyele is not one to suffer fools. We need a native of the area. Someone that can blend into the background, that can bond with Beyele over expensive liquor and poker before shoving a knife into his throat.”</p><p>          Nicky sat up, freeing himself from Joe’s touch. For a fleeting moment, he worried that he had upset his husband. This- this topic was never an easy one to talk about. Let alone with a childhood like Nicky’s. But no; his husband merely nestled in a bit closer. Not quite as relaxed, but still tucked into Joe’s side, looping the arm further over his chest. “We’ll keep Booker as an option then. A back up.”</p><p>          “Back up,” Boss agreed. “Joe?”</p><p>          Leave it to Nicky to bridge the peace between them. “Back up. Then the plan is?”</p><p>         “We go to Paris,” Boss exhaled, “kill the fucker, and run off to Switzerland. Deal?”</p><p>         “Deal.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. 9-Booker</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>These two are adorable. That is all.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He considered it a small victory that it only took Little Shit a week to go from sleeping on his bathroom floor to sleeping under his bed. </p>
<p>	It lessened the worry that he might scar her if he stumbled off to the bathroom in the middle of the night for a piss. And her whimpers wouldn’t echo so loudly in his room. Booker wasn’t lying when he said he would sleep on the couch. Every night he’d settle down on worn springs and stare up at the ceiling; memorizing every tiny crack in the plaster, every little spider that skirted across it. He tried to roll to the right- Claire’s whimper echoed in the bathroom tile, the rustle of clothes and a damp towel painfully loud to his ears. He rolled to the left- pressed his face into the worn fabric as if that could muffle the heavy snores, something akin to a 747 plane landing in his bathroom. Somewhere in the night he couldn’t take it anymore and he’d reach for a bottle.</p>
<p>	It didn’t matter what the poison was, just as long as it would be good. Something to numb the nerves. Something to drown the guilt, the horror that raced in his mind, that screamed at him to fix something he couldn’t fucking fix. And once Booker was appropriately sloshed, he’d wobble to his feet and pad over to the bathroom door. He’d flop down on the ground, a gun tucked into his pants. Ready to shoot shadows and monsters and whatever else dared show its face.</p>
<p>	At least under the bed was more comfortable for Claire.</p>
<p>	He downed another glass of brandy- not cognac. He’d have to pay his tab at a nearby bar soon and he wasn’t looking forward to that bill. But this- it was sweet and fruity, not as sense drowning as whiskey, not as brain numbing as tequila. Just something to keep him stable enough so he could pack an extra mag before he parked himself in the hallway.</p>
<p>	Oh.</p>
<p>	OH.</p>
<p>	Booker sniffed the air- yes that was definitely something burning. He rolled his head to the left, towards the kitchen to catch a glimpse of purple. The quiet clink of a plate, a young girl’s squeaky “ouch” before plastic crinkled. When had Claire gone to the kitchen? Or was he just that sloshed that he didn’t hear his own bedroom door open?</p>
<p>	It didn’t take long for her to appear. She poked her head around the corner, a plate in one hand. Two slices of toast with generous helpings of gooey, stomach churning cheese smashed in the middle. The Frenchman frowned. “...I could have made you something, Little Shit.”</p>
<p>	There! A tiny flicker of a smile; a spark of confidence. “It’s,” she ducked her head before she crept forward. The neon purple sweater the immortal had gotten her was a bit too big for her frame, black pants clinging to her bony hips. There were little glimpses of a spunky kid buried in there somewhere. He knew it. “You didn’t eat dinner so~”</p>
<p>	He squinted at the offering. There was a tremble to his hands; the liquor. It had to be the liquor. “I wasn’t hungry,” he slurred.</p>
<p>	“...You’re never hungry.”</p>
<p>	Merde. “I don’t get hungry, kid. I-” Booker pressed his lips into a thin line before he leaned forward for a refill. He missed the bottle on the first grab, fingers trembling as he finally snagged it. Booker attempted to pour, the liquid almost sloshing out of the cup. “What are you doing up anyway?”</p>
<p>	Claire flinched though in his haze, the immortal had no idea why. He didn’t say with any aggression. Or maybe he was just too plastered already to watch his volume. He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “...What...why are you up,” he repeated, hoping that sounded a bit nicer than his first attempt.</p>
<p>	She chewed her bottom lip, folding her legs beneath her as she got more comfortable at the far end of the couch. “...I couldn’t sleep.”</p>
<p>	“Nightmare?”</p>
<p>	A tiny nod. Right. This would be an excellent time for another shot. His gaze flickered to his glass; he’d lost count of how much he’d had at this point. “It’s getting cold, Little Shit.” He reached for his cheese toast sandwich, breaking the item in two. “We might as well split it.”</p>
<p>	His half was crunchy. Definitely burnt. But...not bad. He took another bite, glancing at the girl. She was nibbling at her half, shoulders relaxed just a hair. “Booker?”</p>
<p>         The Frenchman made an assenting sound, taking another bite.</p>
<p>        “Can,” she chewed on her bottom lip, a hand sneaking up to give a lock of hair a good pull. Booker frowned. He’d have to find a way to stop that. “Can you show me how to throw a punch?”</p>
<p>        *-Edmond; the wind ruffling his light brown hair. How furious he looked, how angry at the sight of Alain’s split lip. Edmond, who spent hours punching the air- over and over, practice makes perfect- *</p>
<p>        “...Claire,” Booker started. “I don’t think-”</p>
<p>        Her voice was a near whisper; small and strong. “...Please?”</p>
<p>        *”Mon papa,” Edmond crowed, bolting to his side. He held out his fist, the knuckles red and swollen. “Look! I kept Alain safe!”*</p>
<p>         Booker exhaled. Fuck everything. “...Tomorrow, mon cherie. Let me-just let me think about it tomorrow, ok?”<br/>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>	He lost his family to time and his own failings.</p>
<p>	He wouldn’t lose Claire.</p>
<p>	Ice toes shoved into his hip and Booker made a face. No one had told him fourteen year old girls could stretch across a couch like a giant cat. She snored, a bit of drool staining her sleeve. “I’m sorry, cherie.” He gently moved her ice cold feet away from him, rising to his feet. “I can’t.”</p>
<p>	Breakfast would have to be scraped together. He had three eggs left and a dash of bacon so he got to work- a dab of oil in the pan, the bacon starting to sizzle when he heard the girl wake. Claire yawned, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. “O-oh.” Booker heard the quiet patter of feet and glanced over his shoulder. She was three feet away, of course. But definitely hungry, gaze fastened on the pan. “That smells good.”</p>
<p>	“Good because its breakfast.” Grease bubbled up and Booker huffed a curse as it landed on his wrist. It was a quick burn- a little dollop that sizzled his wrist, turning the skin a dash of pink before his body healed it in a heartbeat. The kid didn’t notice. “Can you scramble the eggs?”</p>
<p>	Silence settled over the two- deafening, not quite oppressive, and it took Booker a few minutes to realize why. The bowls were in a cupboard right next to him. “Ah never-”</p>
<p>	Claire inched forward, a slight shiver running through the girl. Booker didn’t move a muscle. Not when the second bubble popped on his wrist; not with the third. Her elbow brushed against his side for a fleeting second, bowl clutched in her hands, before she snatched the eggs from the counter and took off for the table.</p>
<p>	Well… that was progress.</p>
<p>	“Silverware’s that way.” Booker gestured away, finally allowing himself to dodge the bacon grease. He opened a drawer to grab some tongs, flipping the first strip. </p>
<p>	“...You didn’t hit me.”</p>
<p>	A statement, not a question. Booker hummed, flipping the second slice. “I don’t hit children, cherie.”</p>
<p>	“Why?”</p>
<p>	“A man shouldn’t strike a child. And no one deserves to be hit.” There was a pause, as if Claire was chewing on what he’d said before he heard the quiet crack of an egg breaking.</p>
<p>	“That’s,” her voice cracked and Booker turned to look. She looked almost like she was on the verge of tears- her cheeks a bright red, tears at the corners of her eyes. She took a deep shaky breath, an egg in hand. “That’s why you didn't touch me right? On the couch?”</p>
<p>	Booker could crack a sarcastic response but- He exhaled, nodding. “No one deserves that.”</p>
<p>	Claire sniffled, wiping at her face. It only seemed to make the tears worse, more of them starting to roll down her cheeks. “I-I’m sorry-”</p>
<p>	“Bacon’s going to burn by the time those eggs are finished.” He turned back around, attention focused on the food. His chest hurt; a dull pain that the immortal didn’t want to think about. “...Claire?”</p>
<p>	He could hear the girl sniffling- muffled little sounds that hurt more than the grease. “Claire,” Booker repeated, just a little louder. “Claire.”</p>
<p>	A hiccup. “Y-yes sir?”</p>
<p>	“...You don’t have to apologize. Or,” Booker cleared his throat. “Or call me sir. Ok?”</p>
<p>	Another quiet cracking sound, the chair squeaking as it was pushed back. He expected to hear the soft patter of her feet. Maybe a quick glimpse of purple as she darted to the silverware and back. He didn’t expect the tentative poke to the small of his back, the floorboards groaning from a quick shift in weight before he turned around. He didn’t expect Claire to be standing behind him (*two feet*, he mused, *not three*), biting her lip. “O-okay,” she whispered, hands gripping fistfuls of her own sweater. “Ok.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. 10-Claire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I got a cheat sheet on how to do italics! Hopefully they worked!</p>
<p>Also theres a gunfight from the pov of a scared shitless 14 yr old. And uh violence. Stabby violence. I apologize if its choppy as hell. And that this chap took so long to come out. Work was not kind this week.</p>
<p>Edit- So I posted this and went to bed and didn't realize that there was a thought that the computer for some reason didn't come over. It's right after the page break. So I used the dreaded stars again lol. For those that read this chap and still loved it, thank you. I guess there must have been spaces in the brackets or something. I'll try to get my format game on point &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She pushed her fork into the mountain of rubbery eggs, watching it wobble at the slightest touch. The bacon was crunchy, greasy goodness; it got her stomach to finally stop grumbling and the splash of OJ the Frenchman had was heaven-sent. It slid down her throat, making her toes curl. She hadn’t had OJ in…in…</p>
<p>	     “What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>	    The teen blinked, poking at her eggs again. “N-nothing.” She risked a glance at the man’s plate. Booker was actually eating! Well nibbling really; he had piled most of the food on Claire’s plate for some reason, and given her most of the OJ as well. “I,” she bit her bottom lip, gaze flicking to Booker’s waist. “Can I ask you a question?”</p>
<p>            Booker hummed an affirmative.</p>
<p>            “Have you ever shot anyone before?”</p>
<p>            If the question shocked him, he didn’t show it. Booker kept eating, nibbling at the bacon and staring at his glass of (<i>Wine? Beer? Whiskey?</i>) something, the stench of alcohol enough to make <i>Claire’s</i> nose burn. Had he heard her? Should she ask again? She started to open her mouth when the Frenchman exhaled. “Yeah.”</p>
<p>            O-oh. Her throat felt dry. She-she’d never hurt anyone before. She never even held a knife until recently. It still felt odd in her hand. An odd, cold comfort. What would it be like to hold a gun? Were guns heavy? Could they stop the nightmares?</p>
<p>            She bit her bottom lip again- a hard press, the faintest hint of iron in her mouth. “...How many?”</p>
<p>            “Enough.” The man was studying her, lips pressed into a thin line. She shifted in her seat, unsure of what to do. Should she confess? Her feelings- the anxiety that lingered in every thought, in every sudden move of Booker’s hands that made her flinch. In the fear- monsters that watched from the shadows, hands that gripped and squeezed and made her cry. How the pocket knife was an odd little thing that...calmed her. Sort of. “Revenge won’t stop the nightmares, p’tit loup.”</p>
<p>          <i>Little wolf,</i> the thought made her smile. Like she even had fangs! “N-no,” she reached up to tug on a lock of hair; a quick little pull. A tiny bit of pain to ground herself. “It’s just...the knife makes me feel safe.” Her smile faded and Claire set the fork down. “...I thought maybe a gun would help.”</p>
<p>         Silence.</p>
<p>         It wasn’t the deafening kind. It wasn’t the kind that made her skin crawl or her throat tight or her hands tremble. Claire wasn’t sure what the hell it was. Only that Booker seemed to be deep in thought, lines furrowed in his brow before he reached for his glass. The dark liquid swirled in the cup; a hypnotizing whirlpool before it was gone in a flick of a wrist. “...Violence isn’t the life you need to lead.”</p>
<p>        “Are you scared, Booker?”</p>
<p>	It slipped out before she could stop it! The question hung in the air between them and for a fleeting second, Claire that <i>now</i> she’d get hit. Now an open palm would come flying across the table and catch her in the face. Now she’d regret talking before she thinks; because she always hurts someone. She always fucks up somehow and-</p>
<p>	A faint smile flickered across his face. “...Something like that.”</p>
<p>	Booker afraid? Claire couldn’t picture it. “I-” she ducked her head, her face hot. She could feel the tears coming- searing hot, anger at the fact she was tearing up again. Shame because it was in front of him and she couldn’t stop it. “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>	Booker exhaled, raking a hand through his mussed hair. “...One choke hold. I’ll,” he paused, eyes closing for a moment. “I’ll show you how to get out of a choke hold. But Claire, always remember the most important rule when it comes to a fight.”</p>
<p>	“W-what’s that?”</p>
<p>	“Run away. No matter what happens, no matter you think you can do,” his gaze pinned the girl to the spot. “Run.”<br/>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>
*Tuck the chin in,* she dipped her head, a few dark strands falling into her eyes. *Tuck the chin in, and protect the neck. O-Oh! And bite! I can't forget to bite.* Her gaze darted to the room around her. The cafe was surprisingly empty, the booths bare save for a burly man in the corner with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a woman by the door, manicured nails drumming to an unknown beat. Another man was talking to the barista, euros exchanging hands and the smell of roasted coffee beans filling the air. It was a dark, warm scent that made her breathe a little easier. Just enough to forget how panicked Claire was at the sight of the streets teeming with people when the two had left Booker’s apartment. She grumbled at the book before her and then at the scribble scratch on the notepad to her right. “...Why do I have to learn about algebra?”</p>
<p>	“Math’s important.” Booker was splayed out in his seat, one arm hung over the chair. One hand held a double shot expresso, as if that could wake him up. </p>
<p>	 She made a face, staring at the symbols before. Somehow, learning how to hold a knife and getting out of chokeholds seemed a lot more important than figuring out where x and y was. “...I’d rather learn about escaping choke holds.”</p>
<p>	“Fractions first. Death maybe later.”</p>
<p>	Claire giggled- a soft, quiet sound. She’d been lucky to get Booker to show one way to escape a choke hold. She didn’t want to upset him. “Fineee. But math is stupid. I still don’t know where x is~”</p>
<p>	The door jingled as it opened and Booker sighed. “Let me see-”</p>
<p>	Claire slid the book towards him, making a face. “...Math isn’t that import-” </p>
<p>	Something was wrong. She watched Booker’s face freeze from a single glance towards the door. She saw his hand drift downwards towards the hem of his shirt. “Claire.” Booker’s voice was terrifyingly low. “On two I want you to get behind me.”</p>
<p>	“But,” Claire started. Green eyes were fastened on someone behind her, the soft click of worn boots against the polished wooden floor.</p>
<p>	“One.”</p>
<p>	Claire inched closer to the edge of her seat. She could hear the footsteps coming closer, Booker’s fingers curling beneath the fabric. “Book-”</p>
<p>	“Two!”</p>
<p>	She hit the ground.</p>
<p>	The world cracked in two- gunshots that gobbled up any scream, the scent of gunpowder burrowing into her nose. Claire clamped her hands over her head.  something yanked her forward. A hand grabbing her by the collar of her shirt- Booker! </p>
<p>	He flung Claire behind him and how easily she slid across the floor. Squeaking and yelping, head low and clinging behind his back. “B-Booker stop! You’re going to kill someone!”</p>
<p>	“Head down,” the Frenchman snapped.</p>
<p>	She pressed her cheek against his back as another crack of thunder filled the air. Deafening. Devouring common sense. Heat rolled off him, little metal casings trickling to the floor and rolling past her knees. She caught a glimpse of red out of the corner of her eye; the woman! She was splayed out on the ground, red spreading out beneath her in a crimson pool. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, brown eyes unfocused. A gun mere inches from her hand.</p>
<p>	“Book-”</p>
<p>	Something slammed into them!</p>
<p>	No- it slammed into Booker. But Claire was clinging to the older man and when it hit the Frenchman’s shoulder, it made the pair tumble backwards. She screamed; red hot metal shells pressing into her, searing through the thin shirt. “Come on, freak,” someone called out in shitty French. A harsh gobble of words nearly drowned out by her pounding heart. “I expected a better fight from you!”</p>
<p>	“Merde!” Booker scrambled to his knees, the table their only cover. Claire caught that flash of crimson in shoulder; blossoming red that made her blood run cold. “Claire, back pocket!”</p>
<p>	She obeyed; a slight tremble to her hands. The phone looked odd- not a fancy iphone. Not something Claire had ever seen. It was older technology, a metal brick in the shape of a phone. “What-”</p>
<p>	“I want you to run for it. When you’re safe,” the man was reaching behind him for another magazine. He only had three and one was already gone. He -he was really going to die here… “I want you to call every number in there till someone picks up. Understand?”</p>
<p>	“B-but-”</p>
<p>	“Go,” He hissed, gun raised.</p>
<p>	 the thought popped into her head even as she turned away. A frantic litany. A desperate chant that made her push off the ground, brand new shoes sliding across the floor. <i>Run! Don’t look back! Just run</i>. The ancient brick was clutched in one hand, her heart lodged in her throat as she burst through the doors. </p>
<p>	Booker- Booker was gonna die.</p>
<p>	He was gonna die and he didn’t have that many bullets left!</p>
<p>	Her thumbs were shaking, mashing the buttons. “P-puh-please,” she whimpered, scrambling for the first place she could hide. Not behind the milk crates. Not behind the shelves of food or trays or a bucket. <i>Freezer!</i> She threw herself towards the door, grabbing the handle with both hands and bracing herself against the ground. The hinges groaned, the popping seal painfully loud in the quiet. </p>
<p>	No one answered. She had to call  the next number.</p>
<p>	Cold air washed over the young girl, Claire hitting the second number. The third number. <i>Any</i> number! Dial tone. Dial tone. Di-</p>
<p>	“...What?”</p>
<p>	A man? There was a sharpness in his voice that made her flinch out of instinct. A strange accent she didn’t know. “Please,” it came out as a quiet sob, Claire sinking to her knees. The gunshots were fading now. Every pop spacing out, longer and longer, reminding Claire of the inevitable. “They’re going to kill him. Please help us!”</p>
<p>	Silence. Had-had he hung up? There wasn’t a dial tone and Claire was crying now. Wrecked, desperate sobs; the kind that shook her shoulders, the frost melting against her back. “Please help Booker. I-I can’t do this-”</p>
<p>	“Where are you?”</p>
<p>	“Paris!” The person hadn’t hung up! She furiously swiped at her face, sniffling. “West side of Paris. I-I’m Claire and-”</p>
<p>	Booker didn’t scream. It wasn’t a yelp or a yell. It was a guttural sound. Heavy with pain; a bolt of electricity that made her jump to her feet, phone momentarily forgotten. She-she couldn’t do this!</p>
<p>	Her hand drifted to her pocket; Booker’s knife. </p>
<p>	She couldn’t do this but she’d have to.</p>
<p>	Her feet moved on their own accord- squeezing out of the  freezer, hand already pulling the small blade out. Cat’s claws, he had called them. She skidded to a stop at the kitchen doors, opening it just a hair. The burly man was still there, one hand clamped on an arm, his back to Claire. Another one- one Claire hadn’t seen before. The newcomer maybe?- was standing over Booker, panting. And Booker-</p>
<p>	Booker was slumped on the ground, his chest soaked in red. Her wrist was locked, a death grip on her penknife. “No.No no no.”</p>
<p>	She should have listened.</p>
<p>	She should have just obeyed Booker and never looked back. Except fear had shredded reason and she couldn’t <i>think</i> anymore. She just saw the red. The pretty shade of crimson that engulfed the man’s chest. The sheer hate in his eyes as he stared up at the two soldiers. She saw the one with the shitty French; he was laughing!  Like-like this was a joke!</p>
<p>	She saw her knife bury itself into the back of the burly man’s knee.<br/>
Again and again and someone was screaming! Her? The burly man? Claire didn’t know.</p>
<p>	She stabbed and twisted and tore; that little blade sawing at soft, delicate flesh. Carving into muscle, slicing into skin. Red was everywhere. It was staining her hands, her arms as her knife moved from the knee to the back of the man’s thigh, the two of them falling into a pile together.</p>
<p>	The artery! </p>
<p>	She went for the artery, just like Booker said. Stabbing, wrist locked. Ripping into it before something slammed into her.</p>
<p>	Stars danced across her vision; bright specks of light that didn’t fade as she attempted to scramble away. “Aaron,” the man cried out in English. His hands were trying to cover the burly man’s thigh. “Aaron!”</p>
<p>	“Booker~” Claire clamped one hand on her temple; a desperate attempt to will the stars away. “Booker wait! Booker-”</p>
<p>	He-he wasn’t moving.</p>
<p>	<i>He wasn’t moving.</i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. 11-Keane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Behold, I live!</p>
<p>There's some shitty Google translate French and a dash of violence in the beginning (Keane smacking Claire for a moment). That's about all the triggers I can think of? Anyhoo, I hope yall like it! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’d let the thrill of the hunt overtake reason.</p>
<p>	He’d forgotten any sense of tactics the moment he walked through those doors, gaze flying to his prey. The immortal was keen; he had to be, to be so old and only <i>just</i> recently getting caught in a Merrick sized clusterfuck. Dark eyes drilled into the Frenchman, willing him to look up and-</p>
<p>	There!</p>
<p>	That burst of recognition. A normal person would have tried to run. Their eyes would have gone wide as saucers, pleas for mercy pouring from their lips. Prayering to an indifferent deity as Keane held his gun high, aim unwavering. Of course, this Booker was not normal.</p>
<p>	Their eyes met- one heartbeat, two, three. A steady lock- one hunter eyeing the other. A waiting man’s game- not a hint of tension, not a trace of fear lingering between the two. There was a stillness that got Keane’s heart pumping even as he stepped forward.</p>
<p>	<i>Playing house.</i>The idea would have made Keane burst out laughing, if he wasn’t so damn excited. The girl was there, a book between them. As if the freak could pretend to be anything else. </p>
<p>	No. Tactics were gone the moment they saw each other. Aaron, the new agent who was just looking for a paycheck- all of it gone in a millisecond as Keane strolled forward.</p>
<p>	Five pounds of pressure was all it took to end the world.</p>
<p>	Five pounds of pressure- the child hitting the ground as a bullet embedded itself in the spot she once sat at. The agent let out a gurgled scream; the immortal’s aim was far better, catching her in the hollow of her throat. A second shot hitting center mass. Five pounds of pressure- Keane’s first shot caught the fucker in the shoulder. The kid was screaming and Keane found himself drawn forward.</p>
<p>	Like a shark catching a drop of blood in the water. Like lightning drawn to a mountain top.</p>
<p>	There would be nowhere to run.</p>
<p>	“Fuck!” Keane tried. He honestly did. Fingers clamping down on the gnarled mess of his friend’s leg, desperate to pinch the vein closed. “Fuck fuck fuck-” Blood was coming out in violent squrits; dark red bursts, red hot and searing into his skin. “Aaron!”</p>
<p>	The little bitch wasn’t even a blip on their radar.</p>
<p>	She wasn’t <i>worth</i> it. She was a scared shitless teen. A brat that ran off while the immortal tried to provide cover; not even worth five pounds of pressure.</p>
<p>	“K-Keane-”</p>
<p>	Aaron’s face was going far too pale, the crimson squirting out in frantic bursts. Keane could feel his friend’s thigh twitch in his hand; someone was gasping for air. <i>You, dumbshit. You can’t even pinch his vein right~</i> “K-Keane-”</p>
<p>	<i>”Booker!”</i></p>
<p>	The girl was clinging to the immortal, sobs shaking her thin frame. “No no no,” she gasped, thin fists smacking at his bloody chest. “Please don’t die! P-please~”</p>
<p>	“Keane.” Aaron’s voice pulled him back. The crimson was finally slowing down, but not because he was pinching it right. “I’m sorry-”</p>
<p>	“No! I-I can get a better grip on it!”</p>
<p>	He had to. His fingers were slipping from how slick it was. Iron that clawed its way into his nose, as it trickled between his fingers. “I think I-” the solider trailed off. Keane did have it. He finally had that fucker pinched and he didn’t feel a single twitch. Not a wince. Not even a pain-filled gasp. </p>
<p>	His best friend was dead.</p>
<p>	“You think <i>he</i> can save you?” The words were nearly snarled out, Keane rising to his feet. The girl had enough smarts to face him, knobby knees shaking and that bloody pen knife clutched in one hand. “You think <i>that</i> can save you?”</p>
<p>	“I-I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “Please-”</p>
<p>	Sorry wouldn’t bring Aaron back. Sorry wouldn’t rewind time. Nothing they could do would fix this.</p>
<p>	He was moving on his own, boots smacking the tile floor. “Sorry,” Keane spat even as the girl scrambled to her feet. “You’re sorry?! Do you know what you’ve done?”</p>
<p>	A hand shot out, the flat of his palm catching her across the cheek with a sharp smack. The girl yelped even as she spun with the force of it.</p>
<p>	“I’m sorry-”</p>
<p>	Another slap, a bright spot of red on her lip that made Keane inhale. What-what the fuck was he doing? Letting rage overtake reason? Watching her brown eyes go wide-</p>
<p>	<i>Bam!</i></p>
<p>	The pain was instantaneous.</p>
<p>	Three shots decimating his kneecap, a burst of pain that made him cry out even as he tumbled to the ground. <i>The fucker’s back!</i></p>
<p>	The fucker was back, another burst of gunfire that echoed in his ears. Kevlar was a godsend, protecting delicate organs as Keane attempted to spin around. The Frenchman was already on his feet- crimson staining his front, bright red drying against his skin and the gun raised, pointed at his head. And the glare! White hot rage, face impassive as his finger threatened to squeeze the trigger.</p>
<p>	“Fuck you,” Keane snarled and his world went black.<br/>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>	<i>”Robert,” a softness in her voice that nudged him from his sleep. “Robert wake up! You’ve got to go~”<br/>	Go? Keane cracked open an eye, squinting against the brightness. Sunlight was filtering through the green canopy above them, as if that could lessen the brightness. His throat was sore and his head pounding- for the aftermath of a late night bender, Keane thought it would be a bit more fun than...this… </i></p>
<p>
  <i>	He’d recognize those curls anywhere there, though. The bright red hair, curls barely contained by a single hair tie. Keane could count every freckle littered across her cheeks, every dot sprinkled across bony shoulders. They paired an oval face, hazel eyes that pinned Keane to the spot. “Don’t look at me like that,” she huffed, leaning over to card a hand through his hair. The touch was feather light and tender; something both kids desperately wanted and would never get. “You’ve got to go.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>	“Eileen,” Keane started. “I-”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>	“-I know.” Her smile was sad now. “But you can’t die yet. Wake-”</i>
</p>
<p>	“Réveiller!”</p>
<p>	He came back with a gasp and the worst fucking headache he’d ever had in his life.</p>
<p>	“Oh mon Dieu!” Someone gasped. There was a sharpness in those words that made him flinch, or maybe that was just his head? A steady, pulsating pain; heavy beats that made him want to curl up in a ball, like a migraine on steroids. Keane attempted to move, hands twitching out of reflex. Something was snug around his chest- straps? ...Was he on a fucking gurney?  “Il est vivant!”</p>
<p>	“Pas moyen!”</p>
<p>	“English,” Keane snapped, finally gaining a bit of sight. Colors were coming back with every gasp; the navy blue of their uniforms, the brightness of the lights above him and the whirr of tires spinning against asphalt. “Do you two speak it?”</p>
<p>	Yup, Keane was strapped to a fucking gurney.</p>
<p>	They’d stabbed him with a needle- <i>IV</i> his brain chirped helpfully, <i>They’ve given you an IV.</i> and Keane could barely move a muscle. Had...had that fucker shot him in the <i>head</i>? <br/>	The two paramedics were staring at him like he’d grown a third head. Yeah, the bloody fucker probably did shoot him in the head. The paramedic to Keane’s left was the first to speak- a scrawny looking teen, a fucking <i>kid</i> really, with the sleeves of his dark blue uniform rolled up to reveal thin wrists. “Euh monsieur, veuillez rester calme. tout ira bien.”</p>
<p>	The other paramedic, this one by the IV bag, nodded. There were a few more wrinkles on this man’s face, palms callused. Definitely a little older than the kid to Keane’s left. “Il est anglais”</p>
<p>	“Course I’m fucking English,” the man snapped again. He understood that word at least. “Look, let me go! I’m fine!”</p>
<p>	Let him go before reporters came crawling out of the woodwork and the rumor mill started going. Let him go before Aaron’s body went cold and he lost the fucking trail. Let him-</p>
<p>	The ambulance lumbered to a halt and Keane’s heart dropped. “Fuck.”</p>
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